


Someone Just Like You

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clones, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flying, Illegal Activities, M/M, Secret Identity, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is horrified when he finds out someone is planning to create a copy of him for their sexual pleasure. Then he finds out it's Draco Malfoy making the copy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Just Like You

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** This was a fun and interesting prompt, even if writing for it took much longer than I thought it would! Thanks to my two wonderful betas for their keen eyes, thoughtful comments and general support.

Shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, Harry crossed his arms over his chest and silently sighed. He'd been waiting in the shadows for almost an hour now, and was getting increasingly uncomfortable and fed up. Harry wished he'd just show up already so this could be over with. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he knew he'd know when the time came.

It was a little over a week ago when Ron had told him. Apparently Ron's Auror partner's informant's sister's ex-boyfriend's cousin had heard that a Poly-Torpeo Potion of Harry had been ordered. Poly-Torpeo was a new potion that had recently exploded on the black market. A Polyjuice variant, instead of transforming a living person into another, it changed an inanimate object into a human. Rather than altering the human cells, the potion made contact and interacted with the particles of any inanimate object; anything roughly the same size as a human. Harry didn't understand the extent of the magical theory behind it, but he got the gist.

There was an accompanying spell that, if performed while the transformation was taking place, would animate the object/human-copy. Drawing on the DNA of the hair used in the potion, the inanimate human would become a passable imitation of the original person. As it was an object, rather than a human, being transformed, the potion was able to last anything up to several days.

Harry himself wasn't involved with investigating Poly-Torpeo directly, but he, Ron and all the Aurors had seen it crop up a lot in a variety of cases with increasing frequency. They had chased down perpetrators only to have them turn into a chest of drawers or an office chair after a few hours in holding; people were spotted in compromising places and situations, yet swore blind—even under Veritaserum—that they had never been there; random reports of people in shops, in the street—people's family and friends—suddenly turning into a suitcase or a coffee table, after giving the real person enough time to disappear somewhere very far away. Mostly, though, Poly-Torpeo was used more for physical pleasures, and while having sex with—technically—inanimate objects was perfectly legal, Poly-Torpeo and the use of people's hair without their permission definitely wasn't.

At first Harry had freaked out about where someone had got his hair from, but the amount of hair he pulled out whilst his hands were fisted in it during this freak out made that kind of a moot point. Then Harry began to really think about the fact that someone was going to make a copy of him. He didn't have to think too long about what it would be used for. No one would truly believe it if they witnessed hard working Auror and Saviour Harry Potter commit a crime. No one would believe it if Harry Potter, so protective of his private and personal life, was suddenly caught in any sort of controversial situation. No, there was only one reason Harry believed someone would want a copy of him. He got enough “fan” letters each week with offers of sex to be sure of it.

That was why Harry had spent the last week going through all of his own informants, threatening, bribing and friending as appropriate, to garner as much information as possible about the fact that someone was going to be making a copy of him. It had taken him all week. Black market Poly-Torpeo brewers were notoriously paranoid and—so far—impossible to track down. But a well-placed _Incendio_ and a perfectly honest guarantee that it was off the record, and Harry had been given the information he needed.

Which was how he found himself hidden in the shadows and under a Disillusionment charm opposite a seemingly abandoned house. He'd been repeatedly assured that this was one of several houses used by the main distributors of Poly-Torpeo, but more specifically, the house used for contact by the people who placed orders. Harry had been able to threaten out two other pieces of information from his informant. One was when the collections took place: Every Friday night. The second was who had ordered the Poly-Torpeo potion of Harry: Draco Malfoy.

And now Harry was standing in the shadows waiting to catch Malfoy in the act of committing nefarious deeds. It felt just like old times, really.

There had been a few people come and go already, all of them trying to act nonchalant, but only looking suspicious to Harry's Auror-trained eyes. None of them had the blond hair or straight-backed stride Harry was keeping a keen lookout for.

Harry was very familiar with how Malfoy looked, how he walked. It was a habit left over from Hogwarts, Harry was sure, but whenever he was in the vicinity of Malfoy, he looked at him. Watched him walk around the Ministry, saw him talk to people, observed him fold him arms, raise an eyebrow or run a hand absent-mindedly through his hair.

Then Harry imagined Malfoy's hand running through Harry's hair—through Malfoy's copy of Harry's hair. He imagined Malfoy's hand trailing down his face, down his chest, down. Harry imagined what Malfoy was planning to do with his copy of Harry. The thoughts made Harry shiver. Shaking his head in an effort to dismiss the images, Harry got his attention back on the house across the road.

The minutes ticked by and Harry began to worry his lapse in attention had made him miss the moment he'd be waiting over an hour for. Malfoy may have slipped in unnoticed and could already be away, making his copy of Harry and running his hands all over—

Just as Harry's mind began to wander again, he spotted him. A flash of blond from around the corner two houses down. Of everyone Harry had observed tonight, Malfoy was both the least and most suspicious. His casual movements were more natural; he looked like a man out for an evening stroll. He was undeniably Draco Malfoy, though, and that alone was enough to make a person suspicious. After walking past the two houses, Malfoy calmly flitted up the few steps and knocked on the door of the not-so-abandoned house.

When the door opened and Malfoy slipped inside Harry began to get very impatient. Malfoy was only inside for a matter of seconds—a minute at most—before he stepped out again. He had a small smile on his face and a hand in his coat pocket. Harry's breath caught in his throat. Malfoy had the potion. After descending the steps back to the street and turning to walk back the way he had come, Harry hesitated.

This was the moment. Harry should show himself, confront Malfoy, accuse Malfoy, _arrest_ Malfoy. Instead, something stopped him. For a few long seconds Harry didn't know what to do. Then, just as Malfoy reached the corner, his free hand came up and carelessly brushed through his hair. Harry's mind slipped back to its images of that hand running through his own hair and, before he could consider what he was doing, he was renewing his Disillusionment charm and following Malfoy around the corner.

Harry followed Malfoy at a reasonable distance for more than 20 minutes. He didn't even stop to question what he was doing. He had not come out tonight with a plan. He hadn't even told Ron what he'd found out or where he was going. It was just... personal, somehow, between him and Malfoy. He also didn't want, again, to be accused of stalking or being obsessed with the man. That was just stupid.

Distracted by his thoughts, Harry's attention lapsed and he stood loudly on a loose paving stone. Malfoy stopped and looked quickly around him. Having been heard, Harry side-stepped swiftly, but silently, into the doorway beside him. After a few seconds, Harry cautiously peeked around the corner to see if Malfoy was looking. He wasn't. Instead, Malfoy was moving swiftly across the road and around another corner. Harry didn't pause before dashing after him.

Three more corners and no more hesitation and Malfoy was walking through a small gate and up a short garden path to what Harry could only assume was his house. Knowing he wouldn't make it through the door behind Malfoy unnoticed, Harry stood just inside the gate debating whether to confront Malfoy now or trust that he could find another way in without raising suspicion.

Time trickled away as Malfoy raised his wand, mumbled a spell and the front door swung open. Harry didn't move. Malfoy wiped his feet before he stepped inside and still, Harry didn't move. As Malfoy turned to shut the door behind him, Harry knew it was now or never. If he didn't speak up he was committing himself to an entirely different—and insane—course of action. The small smile was still on Malfoy's face as the door swung shut, and Harry knew he wasn't going to move.

Staying under his Disillusionment, Harry approached the house. Through a small window beside the door he saw a light come on in what he assumed to be the hallway. He waited for a light to come on somewhere else—living room, kitchen, _bedroom_ —but none did. Concluding that Malfoy must still be in the hallway, Harry removed his wand and made his way around to the side of the house, probing at the wards as he went.

It was as Harry paused at the back door, ready to seamlessly slip through the wards and into the house, that another light came on—at his feet. Malfoy was in the basement. Sensing that he had to move quickly, Harry created a gap in the wards. A simple _Alohomora_ and silencing spell on the hinges and the door opened to admit him.

As Harry made his way silently across the kitchen towards the door with a crack of light underneath all he could hear was the blood pumping in his ears. A repeat of the spells on the back door and Harry was descending the steps into the basement. Luckily the steps were made of stone, and Harry didn't make a sound as he crept down.

When he reached the bottom, Harry stayed close to the wall, both to remain inconspicuous and to stay out of the way. The room wasn't too large. It contained a desk on one side, on which an empty cauldron sat and at which Malfoy was standing. The other side of the room held nothing but a low bench, but what interested Harry was the object laying on top of it. He inched his way closer until he was at one end of the bench, looking down at what seemed to be a Muggle mannequin.

Harry's heartbeat increased the longer he stood there looking at the mannequin. It was obvious what it was there for. Harry couldn't help but wonder why he'd never seen this before; chests of drawers and suitcases had been turned into copies of humans, but never something already made as an imitation of humans. Somehow it seemed more... right. Harry shook himself; nothing about this was _right_.

Then Malfoy turned from his desk and walked the few steps over to the bench. He had a bottle in his hand, and Harry felt his palms begin to sweat. Malfoy stood looking down at the potion he held for long minutes. Harry observed him very carefully. Malfoy licked his lips, sighed, caught his bottom lips between his teeth and closed his eyes. Harry wondered if he was imagining the things he planned to do with his copy of Harry, and without even meaning to, Harry began to imagine them himself.

Harry's eyes moved from Malfoy's face and travelled down his long neck, over his high shoulders, along his arms and across his chest. Harry kept his breathing even, picturing himself—a copy of himself—travelling the same route with his hands, his lips, his tongue. His carefully controlled breathing hitched slightly as his eyes carried on, over Malfoy's hips and long legs, unashamedly resting longest on Malfoy's crotch. It was as Harry's mind supplied images of him on his knees, opening Malfoy's flies and reaching inside for his cock that Malfoy took one step closer, rousing Harry from his fantasy.

Shaken from his thoughts, Harry barely noticed Malfoy uncork the potion and begin pouring it over the mannequin. He started at the head and slowly moved the bottle down across the torso. Harry couldn't deny his curiosity; he'd never actually witnessed this part before, having only ever been present for the later effects of the Poly-Torpeo. He knew the theory, of course. The potion reacted to the cells it made contact with, gradually eating away at them, like acid, except instead of corroding them, it transformed them into human cells.

Slowly, the mannequin's faceless head shifted and seemed to mould itself into human features. Gradually, Harry began to recognise himself in them. His nose, so stark without his glasses perched on top; his eyes, closed and inanimate; his scar, perfect in its imitation of Harry's imperfection.

An imitation. That is what Malfoy was making; what Malfoy planned to have sex with. The reality, now it was being created in front of him, hit Harry hard; it was wrong. So very wrong. It might have seemed right when Harry was imagining himself sucking Malfoy off, picturing Malfoy thrusting above him, but Harry now realised he was seeing things from the copy's perspective—he was the one with Malfoy's cock in his mouth, his arse. To watch this fake version of himself doing those things—no, he didn't want that.

As messy black hair began to sprout from the mannequin's head, Harry watched Malfoy step back, the pouring of the potion complete. Malfoy gazed down at his copy of Harry's face for a moment before turning back to his desk.

It was as copy-Harry's bare shoulders and chest came into being that Harry made his decision. He had no time to question it, with Malfoy's back currently turned and no idea when he would look again. With one sweep of his wand, Harry had Banished the half-transformed mannequin and his own clothes. A second sweep cancelled the Disillusionment. There was no turning back now; Harry was in Malfoy's basement, visible and naked.

Glancing around quickly, Harry spotted a crack in the stone walls near the floor by the bench. It was narrow, but enough to hold his wand and glasses. Once they were hidden, Harry practically jumped on to the bench, very aware of Malfoy muttering to himself only a few steps away. Harry lay down where the mannequin had been and closed his eyes. His heart was beating fast from the adrenaline he'd needed for the seconds it had taken him to get here, and Harry feared Malfoy would sense it, feel it. With the way Harry could feel the pulse in his neck throb, he wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy could _see_ it.

Trying to calm down, Harry steadied his breathing and concentrated. He dared not open his eyes, but he listened. Malfoy was still speaking quietly to himself and Harry forced himself to hear the words. He thought he heard the word 'winter' repeated a few times, and wondered if Malfoy was bitching about the weather. But no, the more Harry concentrated, the more it sounded like two words, repeated. Then Harry remembered—the spell. Drawing from the hair in the potion, it animated the now-human object. Harry hoped, as he was already animate, it wouldn't have any adverse affect—or any affect at all.

Harry went over the facts he knew as he tried to remain calm. He wasn't too worried about passing himself off as a copy of himself. He may not have had any experience with object to human transformation, but he'd arrested and interrogated his fair share of animated copies to know how they acted (which was scarily passable, if a little on the passive side). They seemed only to know as much as their creators told them; some knew they were not real humans and would expire soon, but they only ever divulged that information when asked directly, and they would never reveal the name of the person who created them. They seemed half real, half puppets; they were more like pets than people.

Malfoy had been making a pet version of Harry to have sex with, Harry told himself. Somehow, the 'pet' part didn't bother him; all he seemed to think about was the 'sex' part. He tried to stop thinking about that when his heartbeat increased again. It would not do for Malfoy to turn and see his copy of Harry had been created erection-ready.

To keep his mind occupied, Harry tried to remember what the spell to animate a copy was. The Aurors had discovered it while trying to investigate the Poly-Torpeo Potion, but Harry wasn't on the case and hadn't had a reason to remember it. He felt sure, after mishearing Malfoy, that one of the words sounded like 'winter', but what was the other? It was short, he thought, but did it come first or second?

A shuffle of feet and a short intake of breath distracted Harry from his thoughts—Malfoy had turned around. Without opening his eyes, Harry pictured Malfoy above him, eyes roving over Harry's naked body. Then Harry shut the thoughts down—he'd be living them later, he reminded himself.

Then Malfoy clearly enunciated the words he had previously been mumbling; the words Harry had failed to remember.

“ _Det Vita_.”

It was at this point that Harry realised he didn't know how the animation of a copy worked. He assumed he wasn't supposed to jump up off the bench and literally be animated, so he crossed his fingers that Malfoy hadn't witnessed this before and simply opened his eyes. He tried to keep his eyes unfocused which, he belatedly realised, wouldn't be hard without his glasses.

Before he had time to wonder if he should sit up and look around, Malfoy spoke.

“Harry?” His voice sounded unsure.

Harry didn't know if that was Malfoy asking—if Harry was supposed to know who he was, or if it was Malfoy questioning himself, unable to believe he had pulled it off. To play it safe, Harry simply turned his head in the direction of Malfoy's voice.

Malfoy's face was close enough for Harry to make out his small, nervous looking smile. “Hi, Harry.”

Knowing the copy would have been capable of speech, Harry forced himself to reply. “Hi.”

The smile on Malfoy's face became surer. “I'm Draco, Harry.” As Malfoy spoke, Harry wondered if repetition was an important factor for the copies after they are first made, or if Malfoy just liked being able to say Harry's name. “I'm going to be honest with you, Harry—” The latter, probably. “—you're not real.”

Shocked that Malfoy would tell his copy of Harry this, Harry was startled into a response. “Oh.” He tried not to let his astonishment at Malfoy's honesty show, tried to be as passive as a real copy would be.

“Get dressed in those clothes, and I'll explain.” Malfoy stood upright and turned back to his bench.

Harry glanced around for the clothes, but couldn't make out anything in the blurry room. He cleared his throat before asking, “Clothes? I can't see—”

“Shit.” Malfoy spun back around and was back in front of Harry instantly. “I'm sorry, I forgot. I don't have any glasses for you, but I can fix your vision. Hold still for me, okay?”

Blurry as it was, Harry knew it was Malfoy's wand he suddenly saw out of the corner of his eye. As not okay as his was about it, Harry couldn't say anything but, “Okay.”

Harry froze while Malfoy made a motion with his wand, not even speaking a spell aloud. The next moment, Malfoy's face was thrown into sharp focus. The rest of the room was, too, but Harry couldn't look away from Malfoy. His eyes bright, smile small and cheeks a little flushed. He was beautiful, Harry finally registered. Harry couldn't help the redundant, “Hi,” that fell from his lips, as if he was seeing Malfoy for the first time again.

A small laugh escaped Malfoy. “Hi.” Pointing to Harry's left he indicated the clothes Harry was now able to see. “Get dressed.”

The awkwardness of his fake awakening, Malfoy's honesty and his vision problems behind him, Harry finally registered the request. Malfoy wanted him to get dressed. That didn't seem conducive to the sex they should soon be having. Aware of his role as freshly-made copy-Harry, Harry decided not to question it. He wondered if Malfoy just wanted to rip them off him later.

Harry threw the clothes on quickly, but Malfoy kept his back turned. He thought he should just wait, but he didn't want to. Harry reckoned he could get away with speaking his name. His lips were pulled together, ready to say 'Malfoy', when he remembered the first thing he'd been told when he opened his eyes.

“Draco,” Harry said, instead.

Malfoy turned and nodded at Harry, seemingly impressed that he was able to dress himself. Harry thought perhaps he wasn't supposed to have been, but didn't worry too much about it.

“Come on, let's have a cup of tea and I'll explain.”

Explain what, Harry wondered as he followed Malfoy up the stairs and into the kitchen. Explain how much sex they were going to have now?

In a few minutes they were sitting facing each other at a small table in the kitchen, each nursing a cup of tea. Harry wondered if copies needed food and drink, but was glad he would be getting it, because _he_ certainly needed it.

Malfoy blew gently on his tea and took a sip. He kept his eyes on Harry over the rim of his mug, and Harry, taking his cues from Malfoy, watched him right back. Then Malfoy placed his mug back on the table and took a breath.

“You are a copy I made of Harry Potter. You're not permanent; I guess I should get that out there straight away. You will only last the weekend. I made you for purely selfish reasons; I can't deny that, but I hope you will...” Malfoy seemed to struggle with his words, and then paused to take another sip of his tea. “I hope you will enjoy our time together, as brief as it may be.”

“Okay,” said Harry, still unsure of how much he was supposed to say, especially in lieu of any direct questions.

Harry's response was met with a tight smile and a small frown from Malfoy. “Are you... all right?”

Internally, Harry cursed. He must be doing it wrong. He wondered if he should try to be a _little_ more animated.

Picking up his mug, Harry took a long sip before smiling slightly and saying, “I'm fine, Draco.”

“You're not, upset that you won't exist in a couple of days?”

That Harry could answer: all of the copies he had encountered, whether they had already known about their life expectancy or not, had had the same reaction to it.

Harry shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Malfoy seemed to relax at Harry's nonplussed response, and Harry wondered if he had been told to expect it from whoever had supplied the potion.

“Okay. Do you, er, do you have any questions?” asked Malfoy. When Harry looked blankly at him, he continued, “About this, you, me, anything?”

Harry had a lot of questions, but he didn't think he could get away with anything approaching 'why?' as his copy-self. He chose something less loaded, instead.

“What do you want to do?”

Malfoy's frown was back. “Do? Nothing, I was just asking...”

Harry shook his head. “With me, this weekend. What do you want to do?”

“Oh.” Malfoy's face cleared and he looked down at his mug almost shyly. “Nothing much.” He shrugged. “Just, spend it with you.”

“Okay.” Harry wondered why Malfoy had been so candidly honest about what Harry was—was supposed to be—but not about what they were going to be doing. Was Malfoy being coy about the sex? Perhaps that was why he wanted Harry to get dressed, maybe he wanted to work up to it. Harry could handle that, he supposed.

Seemingly satisfied, Malfoy quickly drank the rest of his tea, and Harry followed suit.

“It's pretty late,” said Malfoy with an obvious glance at the clock. “How about we go to bed?” He slowly began to rise from his chair.

“Okay!” Harry couldn't help his slip of enthusiasm at the situation finally taking a step in the direction he wanted. He practically jumped from his chair, knocking over his empty mug.

Malfoy looked slightly shocked, but recovered quickly.

“I guess being new you haven't had a chance to adjust yet. A good night's sleep should help. Come on.”

Sleep? Harry hadn't planned on sleep. Regardless, he followed Malfoy down the hall and up the stairs. Malfoy stopped at the first door.

“This is your room. The bathroom is right across the landing and I'm down at the end. I've left out pyjamas and there are more clothes in the drawers.” He smiled at Harry.

Harry forced himself to smile back and mumble a quiet, “Thank you,” but his brain was still caught up on the words 'your room'.

“Goodnight, Harry.” Malfoy waited, smile never faltering.

Left with no choice, Harry said, “Goodnight, Draco,” and opened the door to his room.

Once inside, the door closed behind him and he heard Malfoy move off down the landing.

Harry lay awake late into the night and early into the morning. He couldn't figure it out. He had expected Malfoy to fuck him right there in the basement as soon as Harry had opened his eyes. Instead he'd fixed his vision, given him clothes and made him a cup of tea. Other than a gasp and a flush of his cheeks, Malfoy had shown no sign of desiring Harry in any sexual way. Or of wanting Harry physically at all; he hadn't even touched Harry. If anything, Malfoy had seemed awkward and shy about the whole thing.

Maybe it was the fact that he had just made the copy that was putting Malfoy off. Maybe, after giving Harry the 'you're not real' talk, Malfoy wasn't in the mood. Surely he would want to pretend he was shagging the _real_ Harry, so he'd want to distance himself after talking about the fact that this copy-Harry he had made wasn't real.

But then, why had he bothered to tell Harry he was a copy? It wasn't something that needed to be done. Harry had heard of cases where people didn't even bother with the animation spell—they'd just wanted a particular warm body to— Fuck, that's what he had expected from Malfoy. Not that he'd wanted a lifeless Harry to have his way with, but that all he had wanted was sex.

That led to an hour of Harry worrying he had let Malfoy's good looks and hypnotising hair mislead him, and that in fact Malfoy had much nastier uses to put a copy of Harry to. The things Harry imagined ranged from cleaning Malfoy's toilet to streaking during a Quidditch match. He couldn't bring himself to believe it, though. Malfoy had been so kind, so careful, with him. If his plan was to abuse or embarrass Harry, why would he have bothered to make him tea? Ask him if he was okay?

Harry finally drifted off at about 3am, still none the wiser.

At around 8:30 the next morning Harry was woken up by the smell of bacon. When his stomach gave a growl of approval, he realised he hadn't eaten anything since the bag of crisps he'd wolfed down before heading out to stalk Malfoy. That's when he remembered that Malfoy would be the one downstairs cooking the bacon.

Deciding it was unlikely that his copy-self would have lounged around in bed, Harry got up and made his way downstairs. As expected, he found Malfoy in the kitchen, standing at the hob frying bacon. It was a strange sight, and Harry took the time to enjoy it before he announced his presence.

“Good morning,” he said, moving closer to Malfoy.

“Morning, Harry. I'm glad you're up; I didn't want to let the bacon burn.”

“It smells delicious.” Harry peeked over Malfoy's shoulder. “It looks good, too.”

“You grab some plates from over there.” Malfoy pointed at a cupboard near Harry. “And I'll get the bread.”

Soon they were sitting at the table with bacon sandwiches and cups of tea.

“Taste as good at they smelt?” Malfoy asked.

Harry nodded earnestly while chewing on a large mouthful. Malfoy laughed and they fell silent as they ate. The rest of the breakfast passed quite normally. They acted like two normal people, talking civilly and appropriately.

As he worked his way through his sandwich, Harry couldn't help feeling a pang of guilt. Last night he had been staking Malfoy out from the shadows, following him through the streets and sneaking into his home. This morning Malfoy was making him bacon sandwiches and chatting to him. Harry tried not to let it bother him, and focused on the sex they were sure to be having later.

After breakfast, Malfoy suggested they spend the morning taking a walk in a Muggle park nearby. Harry, sure his copy-self would never have objected, said it sounded like a nice way to spend a Saturday morning. And it was, really. The sun was out and it felt like the first proper day of summer. They took along the bread they hadn't eaten at breakfast and fed the ducks, watching them clamber over each other in the water in an effort to reach the scraps of food first. Malfoy bought them both ice creams and they sat on a bench in the sun and... they talked. 

As the copy, Harry refrained from talking about his life or job or friends, and it seemed Malfoy was doing the same. It was strange, to not let the fact that they were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy dictate their conversation or how they acted towards each other. Strange, but, Harry would easily admit, nice. The thing Harry noticed most strongly, though, was that at no point did Malfoy do or say anything inappropriate. He made no move on Harry, no flirtatious words or touches. That is what left Harry the most baffled.

When they got home Malfoy showed Harry around the kitchen, directing him to the fridge and the cutlery, and asked him to make them some sandwiches for lunch while Draco grabbed a quick shower. Harry did as he was asked, fetching some cheese, tomato and fancy hummus from the fridge. He determinedly did not think about Malfoy naked and wet somewhere above him. Not even when he heard the shower turn on, and then off, or when Malfoy's footsteps moved down the landing or when he didn't close his bedroom door.

By the time the sandwiches were done, Harry was using his free hands to push down on the erection not thinking about Malfoy in the shower had somehow produced. He willed it away by thinking about Hagrid in the bath, covering his beard in suds and playing with rubber ducks. It was gone by the time Malfoy walked into the kitchen, hair still damp and feet bare. Harry quickly looked down at his sandwich and thanked Malfoy for a lovely morning.

As they ate their sandwiches they talked some more. Harry didn't really have much to say. Not knowing how much he was actually supposed to know about himself, anything he did say was more about the moment rather than stories or facts about the past. Mostly Malfoy talked. The things they didn't say at the park seemed to start cropping up. Malfoy told him a little more about his life, and Harry listened. He made comments and asked questions and most surprisingly, he found he was interested.

Malfoy worked at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Equipment Control, which Harry knew—it was a subdivision of Magical Law Enforcement (not to mention the fact that he watched Malfoy often enough to know not only where he worked, but when). What Harry hadn't known was that Malfoy's working days were split between acting as a mystery shopper, on the lookout for sellers of substandard magical equipment and writing up reports on the businesses he had inspected. Harry genuinely found it fascinating. He asked Malfoy all about it; what shops he had had to report and what was the most shocking thing he'd found for sale. He found out Malfoy made excuses to visit Quidditch supply shops all over the country, not because he had any reason to suspect them of selling dodgy brooms, but because he liked to spend time browsing the equipment and, as Malfoy put it, he 'may as well do it on the Ministry's time'.

Only briefly and in passing did Malfoy mention his friends or reveal anything more personal about himself. He laughed about Pansy calling him lazy, he brushed off inquiries after he mentioned he played a music instrument and refused point blank to elaborate when he let slip that Blaise was pet-sitting for him that weekend.

What Harry clearly got from the conversation was a sense of how happy Malfoy was. He talked candidly, but not arrogantly, and smiled often. It must have been catching, because when Malfoy stood and suggested they go flying, Harry grinned with pleasure and agreed instantly and without reservation.

So wrapped up in the infectious happiness, it wasn't until Malfoy had Apparated them to the middle of a small clearing surrounded by trees that Harry realised they had only one broom between them. His first thought was that Malfoy was going to abandon him there, wandless and without a way home. Then Harry caught sight of Malfoy, a few metres away. His arms were raised, his face turned to the sun, and he seemed to be breathing in the freedom the air promised. Then he turned to Harry, smiled and pushed a hand casually through his hair. Harry immediately regretted his original thought and could now think of nothing but sharing a broom ride with Malfoy, in the heat of the afternoon sun, rather than the heat of conjured flames.

Harry couldn't help but smile back as Malfoy mounted his broom and said, “Come on, Harry, climb on.”

Harry felt sure it would be awkward, but it wasn't. He simply did what he had wanted to do since he decided to follow Malfoy home the previous night. Steadying himself on Malfoy's shoulders, he swung his leg over the wood and settled down on top of it, lowering his arms to grasp Malfoy firmly around the waist. It felt comfortable, and nothing like it had in the Room of Requirement.

Then Malfoy was saying, “Hold on tight,” and they were lifting into the air.

They flew low over the forest, the wind they created brushing the tops of the trees. At one point, as Malfoy slowed down to make a turn, Harry even leaned over and snagged a leaf. They both laughed at the joy and freedom of it.

After half an hour or so, Malfoy landed the broom and they both got off. Harry's mind was still above the trees, and it took if a few seconds to realise Malfoy was holding the broom out to him.

“What?” Harry didn't understand.

“Your turn,” was all Malfoy said.

“Really?” Just below the thrill of excitement that passed through him, Harry remembered he wasn't himself—he was a copy. “I mean, can I?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Why not? I'll be flying with you.”

When Harry still showed reluctance, Malfoy raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. “Surely you're not scared, Harry?”

The goading didn't quite have the same vehemence without the use of his surname, but then, Harry didn't think it was supposed to. He took the broom from Malfoy and grinned.

“Never,” Harry replied.

Positions reversed, they remounted the broom. Harry felt the thrum of magic through the wood against his hands, but found he much preferred the touch of Malfoy's arms around his waist. It was only when Malfoy whispered, “Let's go,” into Harry's ear that he realised he wasn't already in the air.

When they finally did get off the ground, Harry followed a similar flight path to Malfoy's, staying low to the trees and turning in wide arcs. It was nice to see the tree tops spread out in front of him, green and brown in every direction.

This ride was more subdued than their first. They didn't laugh like teenagers; they stayed quiet and enjoyed the flight in their own ways. Malfoy held on to Harry firmly. So firmly, in fact, that Harry thought he felt a hardness pressing against his lower back. Malfoy didn't move or push against Harry, and his hands remained firmly above Harry's waist, so Harry kept his hands on the broom and resisted grinding back against Malfoy. It was difficult and distracting, but he managed it.

Just before Harry took them down to land, Malfoy leaned closer and Harry thought he felt Malfoy nuzzle at him and take a sniff of Harry's hair. With how fast they were moving and the sound of the wind in his ears, Harry couldn't be sure. When they reached the ground Harry was unsteady on his feet. He laughed it off on the thrill of the ride, but he knew it was really the thrill of being so close to Malfoy.

When they got back to Malfoy's house, they took it easy for a while and drank some tea. Harry got to see Malfoy's living room for the first time and it was the perfect place for relaxing. It was green, but not Slytherin green, a very pale green. The sofas were soft and deep and there were books on every shelf.

Assuming that, since his copy-self could speak and understands language, he should be able to get away with reading, Harry moved over to the bookshelves and glanced at the titles. There was a high proportion of Muggle fiction, mostly classics, but Harry remained focused enough to hide any outward reaction to that—his copy probably wouldn't even know if was Muggle fiction. He slid a copy of Animal Farm from a shelf and turned to find Malfoy sitting on the sofa with a book of his own.

Malfoy looked relaxed, legs crossed and book open on his knee. All Harry wanted to do was stand there and look at him, books be damned. He might have, too, if Malfoy hadn't glanced up to find Harry staring at him. Malfoy smiled lightly, patted the sofa next to him and Harry headed over.

“Find a book you like?” Malfoy asked.

“I don't know, I haven't read it yet.”

Malfoy laughed. “Okay, smart arse, start reading and let me know when you decide.”

Harry couldn't help smiling at Malfoy's words.

They spent a while reading, stopping to mention interesting quotes or discuss ideas. It was a subdued and pleasant way to spend the late afternoon. Harry didn't miss the fact that, as they read and talked and time passed, they seemed to edge closer on the sofa. When Malfoy finally looked up at the time and said they should eat, their thighs were pressed firmly together and all Harry wanted was for Malfoy to kiss him and press him back into the sofa cushions.

Instead of cooking, they went out for dinner. Just a quick stop for some greasy fish and chips because, Malfoy informed Harry, they were going to go to the cinema. Harry had shaken his head slightly in disbelief, but grinned all the same.

They sat through the film in silence. Harry paid enough attention to know what was going on on the screen, but his thoughts were focused on the man beside him. Muggle books, a Muggle cinema, pets, a musical instrument, laughter and kindness... Harry was beginning to question everything he thought he knew about Draco Malfoy. It was possible—likely, even—that Malfoy was being so nice to Harry because he thought he was a copy; Malfoy had never shown any inclination to be nice to Harry in the past. Even nowadays, years after school, after the war, they weren't _nice_ to each other. Other than Harry's habit of observing Malfoy as often as possible they mostly ignored each other.

Regardless of Malfoy's motives for being nice to a copy of Harry, Harry couldn't deny the parts of Malfoy and his life that had nothing to do with Harry. Malfoy was a pet owner, a pet owner responsible enough to have someone look after the animal when he expected himself to be too busy to do so himself. Malfoy played a musical instrument, Harry had no doubt well—Malfoy didn't seem the type to waste his time on something he wasn't good at. Malfoy owned Muggle books; he had read and enjoyed them, as their earlier discussions had revealed. Malfoy smiled and said nice things and Harry liked him.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts and the film he was only half paying attention to when a hand was slipped into his own. He looked down and even as he saw Malfoy's hand wrapped around his, he refused to believe it. Shocked and elated, Harry's hand instinctively squeezed lightly at Malfoy's. Malfoy's almost instantly squeezed back, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy smile, his eyes still on the film in front of them.

The film played on, but Harry was no longer paying attention. He wasn't even pondering the complexities of Draco Malfoy. All Harry could think about was the hand holding his own. He wondered if this meant that Malfoy would want to have sex tonight, or if this was like a first date and all they would do was kiss. Harry wondered if he would be able to stop at just a kiss. The longer they remained like that, the more Harry was sure his palm was sweating. He began worrying that, as a copy, he shouldn't be capable of sweating. Would Malfoy figure out he was real? Would he care? Would he just find the sweating gross and not want to shag Harry at all?

When the credits finally began to roll, Malfoy took his hand back to stand up, and Harry superstitiously wiped his own hand furiously on his trousers.

Back at Malfoy's they sat at the kitchen table and chatted about the film. Harry was sure it was obvious he hadn't been paying attention. Not only was he barely watching the film in the first place, all he could think about now was the feeling of Malfoy's hand in his and how good Malfoy had looked in the glowing light of the cinema screen. When Malfoy suggested they go to bed, Harry didn't jump up quite as eagerly as he had the previous night, but he was quick to agree and get to his feet.

Harry kept a frown from his face when Malfoy stopped outside of the spare room, but only barely.

“Well, Harry, I had a lovely day. Thank you for spending it with me.”

Malfoy was smiling at him and Harry had no idea what the fuck was going on. He wanted to blurt out 'Do you want to shag me or not?' but didn't think that would be the wisest choice. Instead, he managed to smile back.

“I did too. Thank you, Draco.”

A small nod and Malfoy was moving in. Harry thought this was it, finally. If he could encourage Malfoy to take the kiss far enough, Harry would have them both in bed and Malfoy's cock in his arse in no time.

Instead of the kiss on the lips that Harry had expected and planned for, Malfoy moved to the side and kissed Harry briefly and lightly on the cheek. Malfoy drew back and was gone before Harry had registered what he'd missed.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Malfoy whispered before he moved off down the landing, leaving Harry standing, alone and confused, in the doorway to the spare room.

Lying in bed, Harry didn't know what to think. Malfoy had gone through the expense, the trouble, the _illegality_ of creating a copy of Harry (or, at least, he thought he had), and for what? As far as Harry could tell all Malfoy wanted to do was chat and fly and read with him. Couldn't he do that with his friends? Malfoy had held Harry's hand, and possibly smelt his hair, but had otherwise shown no sexual interest in Harry. He might have had an erection while they were on Malfoy's broom, but the excitement of a good fly had got Harry hard before.

Thinking about how close he had been to Malfoy, their arms wrapped around each other, Harry allowed himself to imagine what might have happened if he hadn't stayed the urge to grind back into Malfoy. If Malfoy had have pushed forward against Harry's arse. If they had tumbled to the grass, kissing and thrusting.

Harry wanked furiously before he fell asleep.

The next morning Harry woke to the smell of coffee. After two less-than-restful nights' sleep, the thought of caffeine got him out of bed quicker than the previous day's bacon sandwich had done. He was down to the kitchen with a mug in one hand pouring himself a large dose of coffee before he'd stopped to think.

After two large gulps, Harry turned to see Malfoy at the kitchen table. The _Sunday Prophet_ was open in front of him, but his eyes were on Harry.

“Morning, Draco,” Harry said as he put down his mug and slid into the chair across from Malfoy.

“Morning, Harry. Did you want some coffee?” Malfoy's words were light; teasing, but Harry blushed all the same.

“It just smelt so good.”

“It should do, the amount it costs. I can only drink Kona Coffee, the rest taste like dirt.”

Harry thought he blushed harder. He'd just stormed in and helped himself to Malfoy's expensive coffee when he only ever bought Tesco's own for himself at home. He shamelessly took another gulp, fully savouring the flavour. It _was_ better.

After a breakfast of fancy bagels and posh spreads, Harry realised Malfoy was more like the snobby person he had assumed him to be than he had lead himself to believe yesterday. Though when Harry started to do the washing up and Malfoy waved him away to do it with a spell, Harry decided he still liked him.

“What's the plan today, then?” asked Harry, eager to do more flying and/or hand holding with Malfoy.

“It's Sunday, so I thought we could relax this morning. Read the papers, do the crosswords. Maybe you'll be able to finish your book.”

As Malfoy led the way through to the living room, Harry tried to act pleased. He peeked out the window in the hallway—it was a little overcast, but still dry; they _could_ go flying. Harry's disappointment was soon swept aside when Malfoy sat down on the sofa and patted the spot beside him.

Instead of inching their way closer to each other over the course of the morning, they spent the entire time touching each other in some way. They began as they had left of the previous afternoon, with their thighs pressed firmly together. Harry read his book while Malfoy finished reading the paper. Then Malfoy rested his feet in Harry's lap while they completed the crossword together. Later, they swapped and Harry's laid his head on Malfoy's lap while they both read their books. Harry spent most of his time gazing up at Malfoy instead of reading, and it was worth even the five times he was caught doing it.

“Are you not enjoying your book?” Malfoy asked after the sixth time he looked down to find Harry staring up at him.

“No, it's fine,” said Harry, not taking his eyes off Malfoy.

“Because if you want to read something else, or do something else, or—”

“Why haven't we had sex?” Harry hadn't meant to ask it, it had just fallen from his mouth.

Malfoy made a few incoherent noises before he finally said, “What?”

Deciding there was nowhere to go but forward, Harry continued. “Sex. Why haven't we had any?” Suddenly aware of their awkward positioning for such a loaded conversation, Harry sat up and faced Malfoy. “Isn't that why you made me? You want to, I think. They way you smile at me, holding my hand and you did smell my hair, didn't you? And while we were flying, I'm pretty sure—”

“Stop!” Malfoy raised his palms, as if to physically stop Harry.

Malfoy closed his eyes and had turned very red. Harry bit his lip, worried he had overstepped some invisible boundary. He couldn't keep his hands still, fearful that Malfoy would now want rid of him, or try to reverse the spell that Harry wasn't under. When Malfoy spoke again, he lowered his arms but kept his eyes closed. He looked pained, as though it hurt to say the words.

“This isn't about sex. I like you—the real you—very much. He doesn't know, wouldn't care, can never feel the same and can never know. I'm under no illusions; I will never get to date Harry Potter. But I couldn't get him out of my mind. So, I thought... this. Making a copy of him to spend a weekend with, get him out of my system. Then, hopefully, move on.”

“Can you get me— _him_ —out of your system without having sex with him—with me?”

Malfoy shook his head and agitatedly ran a hand through his hair. “As much as I would love to throw Harry Potter down and fuck him senseless, I can't do that with you. If I was going to do that, if I ever had the chance, it could only ever be with the real thing.” Malfoy looked up at Harry, aghast. “I'm sorry, that sounds—that was inconsiderate, I... I'm—”

All Harry wanted to do was cry out that he was the real Harry, that Malfoy was wrong; that Harry could feel the same way—that he thought he _did_ feel the same way. That he should undoubtedly throw Harry down and fuck him senseless.

All Harry did was say, “Oh. Okay,” before pulling his attention back to his book. Harry didn't read a word of it, but it seemed Malfoy was hiding behind his own book, as well.

The atmosphere was charged with awkwardness, and Harry knew he should not care—he didn't think the copy would have. Harry just didn't know how to pin his thoughts down; they were everywhere. He wanted to come clean with Malfoy. Knowing Malfoy wanted him, having that confirmed—and not just for sex, that he wanted to _date_ Harry—it made Harry's blood hum. He may not have considered it before this weekend, but now... now he wanted that too. Coming clean was not as easy an option as it first appeared, though. Malfoy could never like Harry enough to just ignore the fact that Harry had followed him home, snuck into his house and infiltrated his life by posing as a copy of himself. No, he had to stay quiet and stay put. Let it play out. And then, what? Leave and act as though this had never happened? Ask Malfoy out a few weeks down the line? Never, ever, tell him that the weekend he thought he'd spent with an animated mannequin was actually their series of first dates?

Harry was so engrossed in his thoughts he almost missed Malfoy stand and leave the room after a mumbled, “Time to make some lunch, I think.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry determinedly stopped thinking about it. Perhaps this weekend was all either of them was going to get, and if it was, they both needed to make the most of it. Considering nothing but the rest of the day he would be spending with Malfoy, Harry stood and made his way to the kitchen to help with the cooking.

The awkwardness eased as they peeled carrots and chopped cabbage, it was briefly forgotten all together in the madness of burnt Yorkshire puddings, and only a shadow lingered in the easy conversation over lunch. By the time they were clearing the table and setting the pots to wash themselves up, Harry felt it had finally left them for good.

They walked off lunch at the same park they had visited the previous morning. They didn't have any leftover bread to feed the ducks, and the sun wasn't shining like it had yesterday, but walking beside Malfoy was the nicest part, anyway. After the uncomfortable atmosphere he had created with his question, Harry felt the need to do something to show that everything was still all right between them. He couldn't think of any words to say that would help, so he plucked up his Gryffindor courage, reached out and took Malfoy's hand. Neither of them said anything. They didn't even look at each other. But they both gave a gentle squeeze.

When they got back to Malfoy's house, they made a pot of tea and retreated to the living room again. Instead of lounging around and reading, though, Malfoy opened a cupboard underneath one of the many bookshelves and pulled out a stack of boxes. On closer inspection, Harry saw they were games.

“Prepare yourself for a thorough thrashing, Harry. Which would you like to lose at first?”

Harry looked over the boxes. They all had familiar names, but the designs were different. Monopoly with a waving and winking Mr Monopoly; Risk whose soldiers carried wands and threw curses at each other; Trivial Pursuit which had an ethereal glow about it; Battleships where the ships were on a loop of being hit, sinking into the water and re-emerging in a crash of waves before being hit again.

Harry only consciously caught on to what he was seeing when his eyes passed over the chess board, next to a box that was rattling as the pieces inside attempted to get out. These were all wizard equivalents of classic Muggle games. Though, Harry realised, the Muggle versions could be based on these wizarding ones. He wasn't bothered enough to ask about it, though.

“Battleships!” cried Harry.

They spent the afternoon laughing and cursing each other as they sank battleships, answered ridiculous wizarding knowledge questions, invaded countries and bought property in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Harry lost more often than he won, but he blamed that entirely on the finickity wizarding rules to the games that Malfoy refused to explain. He called Malfoy out on it, but all Malfoy did was laugh and call Harry a sore loser. It was the most fun Harry had had in months.

After a small dinner of cheese and crackers with a glass of wine, Harry was shocked once again by Malfoy. In the living room where they had spent nearly the entire day, Malfoy revealed a Muggle television that Harry had failed to spot.

“Where the hell were you hiding that?” Harry wanted to know.

“I wasn't hiding it, you're just unobservant.”

“No I'm not, I'm—I've been in here all day, and that hasn't been!”

“Fine, I wheeled it out from the cupboard in the hall while you were in the loo.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. Harry grinned and felt smug.

“Why do you have it?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I like to watch films now and again. I have some on discs. I thought we could curl up on the sofa and watch one.”

Hoping he specifically meant curl up _together_ and watch a film, Harry readily agreed. Malfoy let him choose from his moderate and eclectic DVD collection. Harry took his time, wanting to pick the perfect film. It had to be something he'd seen before, because he could not guarantee, curled up next to Malfoy, that he would be able to pay attention. It also had to set the mood; he didn't want anything too dreary, but he wanted something subdued and intimate. When Harry's eyes fell on Howl's Moving Castle he knew he'd found the right one.

Harry managed to pay more attention to the film than he thought he would, but he still couldn't get his thoughts away from Malfoy. They had curled up together, and it was wonderful. Malfoy had his arm around Harry, and Harry had his head on Malfoy's shoulder. Occasionally Malfoy's hand would stroke from Harry's shoulder down to his elbow and back again, other times Malfoy would squeeze Harry's arm, drawing Harry closer to him, and essentially give Harry a hug. For Harry's part, he rested a hand on Malfoy's leg, stoking his thigh now and again, letting it rest ever so slightly higher each time. He also turned to look up at Malfoy, to see his reaction to Harry's favourite parts of the film. Each time, Malfoy would look down at Harry and smile.

It was all so comforting and felt so right, Harry didn't want the film to end. But end it did. As the credits began to roll, Harry felt a light, but definite press on the top of his head. The kiss lingered for a few hesitant seconds, and then Malfoy removed himself from the sofa and stretched. Harry knew what was coming before Malfoy spoke.

“Well, I have work in the morning, so I should be getting to bed.”

All Harry could bring himself to do was nod. He wondered if Malfoy meant to leave him here, in his living room, so he could dispose of the mannequin that should be sitting in his place tomorrow.

“You should get to bed too,” said Malfoy. He fidgeted on the spot. “Of course you don't have to, I just thought perhaps it might—when you—”

He couldn't seem to finish, but Harry thought he got what he was trying to say. Harry nodded once more and stood to follow Malfoy upstairs. He worried he was giving himself away again. Surely a real copy wouldn't be upset about this? He shouldn't be upset about this. Like he'd told Malfoy the first night, it was what it was. But Harry was that upset. He had jumped into this with no plan and no aim, other than sex with Malfoy. Instead he found himself pining for Malfoy, wanting to spend more days lounging around in his living room, flying, playing games and feeding the ducks.

Harry stopped at the top of the stairs as the realisation hit him. He really did like Malfoy, he really did want to date him, hug him, kiss him. He wanted desperately to know what musical instrument he played, what pet he had, why Pansy called him lazy. Harry wanted to be all the things he couldn't be for Malfoy as the copy he was pretending to be. Harry really didn't want this weekend to end.

“Are you okay?” Malfoy's voice roused Harry's from his thoughts.

“Yes, sorry.” Harry moved to the door of his room where Malfoy was waiting.

“Okay, well. Goodnight, Harry.” Malfoy's words seemed weightier than they had the previous two nights. Harry felt sure Malfoy didn't want the weekend to end either.

As Malfoy leaned in, to kiss Harry, probably, maybe even on the mouth, Harry jerked his head back and said, “Wait.”

“Sorry, I didn't—I'm sorry.” Malfoy was quick to pull back and apologise. He had turned away and taken two steps down the landing before Harry could catch him by the arm.

“Wait,” Harry repeated. “I don't want to say goodnight.”

Slowly Malfoy turned to face Harry. “Harry, I—”

“No, listen. I—I care about you. You're upset about saying goodbye, too.”

“We have to, Harry, you're not real.”

Harry sighed. “I know, but... let me sleep with you.”

Malfoy pulled his arm free of Harry's slackened grip. “Harry, no. I told you. I could only sleep with—”

“With _him_ , I know.” Harry was jealous of himself, and he knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. He shook his head. “I didn't mean sex, anyway. I meant sleep. Let me into your bed. Let me hold you. Let me fall asleep in your arms.”

Malfoy didn't reply right away, but his face softened. When he did speak, his voice was softer, too.

“I don't know, Harry. This—this wasn't part of my plan.”

“I don't care about your plan. You need this. I need this.” Harry gazed into Malfoy's eyes and knew he was weakening. “Please, Draco.”

Closing his eyes, Malfoy slowly nodded. Then he stepped forward and embraced Harry, and for a moment, Harry thought it really wouldn't end.

Harry finally found himself in Malfoy's bedroom. It was relaxing, like Malfoy's living room, and had wallpaper with pale blue swirling shapes that made Harry think of the sea. The bed was large, but looked inviting, especially with Malfoy standing at the other side of it.

They didn't speak. It seemed natural, really; simple. They each pulled back their side of the quilt and slid inside. There was no awkward moment, no avoiding each other's eye or unsure touching. They simply fell together. Arms around each other, legs entwined.

After long minutes of laying quietly, Harry felt Malfoy squeeze him a little tighter, a little closer. Harry squeezed him right back, and thought he'd never been more content. He wanted to lay awake all night and savour this feeling, this moment, this man. And he tried, he really did. Over time, as Malfoy's grip relaxed around him and his breathing evened out, Harry's eyelids began to droop.

Early the next morning Harry slowly opened his eyes he felt rather than saw Malfoy in the bed next to him. They were laying close to each other, but no longer holding one another. The light in the room was dim through the closed curtains; it was early, almost dawn. Blinking a few times Harry tried to focus. Malfoy must have got warm in the night, because he'd removed the t-shirt he had gone to bed in. The smooth expanse of his back distracted Harry for a short while, before he looked up at Malfoy's peaceful sleeping face. He had to leave that face, that back, that man.

Harry didn't want to, but he slipped out of the bed.

Having learnt the house quite well over just two days, Harry dressed quickly in the spare room and slipped quietly down the stairs. He lingered at the door to the living room, remembering the feel of the sofa against his back and of Malfoy at his side. The laughter they had shared playing games and the discussions they'd had about books. Harry finally moved away when he noticed the morning light in the room had brightened.

Next, Harry dashed down to the basement and retrieved his glasses and wand. He slipped the glasses on, but they made everything painful to look at; he really didn't need them any longer and Harry found he really didn't mind. Folding the glasses, Harry tucked one arm of them into the collar of his t-shirt. Needed or not, he wanted to keep them. His wand, on the other hand, still worked and Harry still needed it. He was amazed by how little he had missed it over the weekend; he and Malfoy had used so little magic, really. Harry chalked that up to one more thing he'd likely never know about Malfoy, as much as he'd like to. Before making his way back up the stairs, Harry glanced around the room. This was where he had made the stupid, brilliant decision to jump head first into Malfoy's life. Or, more accurately, into Malfoy's bed. It hadn't gone as planned, but nothing ever did, really. Instead of the shag he'd craved, Harry had got a glimpse of something so much better, but something he couldn't keep.

Back upstairs in the kitchen, Harry made his way to the back door to slip out as seamlessly as he had slipped in. He took one last look back at the kitchen. The table at which he and Malfoy had shared meals, talked casually and smiled at each other. The room where Malfoy had prepared breakfast the past two mornings and woken Harry with delicious smells.

Harry had to look away. He had to _walk_ away. From all those memories, from the happiness he'd had here, with Malfoy, in just two days. He had to leave it all behind as if it hadn't happened. He didn't want to, but he couldn't stay. Malfoy couldn't know it had been Harry, the real Harry, he had spent the weekend with instead of a copy. If he did, he would never be able to forgive Harry. There would be shouting and hate and angry words they would never be able to take back.

But it would be there. The truth, with neither of them able to take that back either. They would know how they felt about one another. And what was the alternative? Sneaking away and both of them pretending this had never happened. Is _that_ what Harry wanted? He shook his head to the empty room. He didn't want to leave and pretend to forget that this weekend had happened; pretend to forget that Malfoy had happened. The truth, along with the anger and shouting, was better. Harry nodded to himself firmly.

Decision made, Harry strode away from the back door and into the kitchen.

Having thrown himself into cooking an extravagant breakfast, Harry hadn't noticed Malfoy appear and whipped around sharply at the more than a little confused sound of his voice.

“What's going on?”

“Morning. I'm, er, making breakfast. I hope you like scrambled eggs.”

Malfoy simply stood there, frowning at Harry for a few long seconds. Harry's heart beat rapidly in his chest. Was Malfoy going to start yelling, curse Harry with his words or his wand—or both—and throw him out? When Malfoy spoke he was calm, which unnerved Harry more.

“Why are you still here? _How_ are you still here?”

Harry didn't really know how to answer that, so he just shrugged and said, “I've always been here,” before throwing a warming spell over the eggs. He had a feeling they wouldn't be eating them any time soon.

“How did you get a wand?” Malfoy glanced down at his pocket, seemingly to check he still had his own. “And why does it even work for you?” His eyes travelled over Harry. “And those glasses...” The moment of realisation was clear on Malfoy's face. Clear right up until his face closed down and left a blank mask behind. “Potter.”

“I preferred it when you called me Harry.” He spoke quietly, expecting Malfoy to get angry and start shouting any second now.

“It was you, the whole time.” It wasn't even a question. Malfoy continued on quite calmly. “You lying, manipulative bastard.” He said is as if it was just an accepted fact rather that his own angry opinion. Maybe it was.

“Please, let me explain.” Harry took a small step forward, but Malfoy held up a single finger pointed at Harry and he stopped.

“Explain? Explain what? That you followed me home, broke into my house and—and took the place of a copy of yourself?” Malfoy seemed half amused and half exasperated. “You insane twat. How can you possibly explain that?”

“I'm an insane twat?” Harry couldn't help but snap back. “You're the one who was _illegally_ making a copy of me in the bloody first place!”

“Yes, and you obviously knew that, but instead of arresting me, or confronting me, or stopping me, you jumped in head first and pretended to _be_ the copy. I think that ranks higher on the insane level.” Malfoy's voice rose in volume as the anger Harry had expected started to show.

“No, making a copy of someone you want to shag and then _not shagging them_ is the most insane thing,” Harry threw back.

Malfoy's eyes widened and he seemed to physically recoil a little. “That's why you did it.” His voice was suddenly flat and almost devoid of emotion. Harry felt his insides churn as he realised what he'd said.

“No,” said Harry, backtracking aimlessly, “that's not what I—”

“Yes, it is. You assumed I was creating a copy of you to fuck. You snuck into my house and exchanged yourself for the copy so that you'd be the one getting fucked.”

“I hadn't planned...” Harry shook his head a little, knowing it was a useless lie. “I just... You were...”

Seeming to sense Harry's sudden weakness and wanting to take advantage of it, Malfoy narrowed his eyes and forced a tight smile. “Do you want me to fuck you, Potter?”

Harry instantly became defensive. “You _want_ to fuck me! You said so!”

“Yes, I did say that, didn't I?” Malfoy cocked his head to one side, thinking. “Come on, then.” He took a step towards Harry.

Harry backed up into the counter behind him. “What?”

“Let's fuck. It's what you wanted. I'd've thought you were too morally just, too pure, too _good_ to sleep around, but obviously not. Is this why you stuck around for the whole weekend? Hoping I'd get around to pushing you down on the sofa and making you suck my cock?” Malfoy laughed humourlessly. “Shit, I wish you'd just told me, we could've done this sooner. You'd've got your shag, I'd've got you out of my system and we needn't have bothered wasting our time with the entire weekend.”

Harry's insides gave another lurch—that had actually hurt. Harry felt sure it wasn't true, but it wasn't pleasant to hear Malfoy say that all he had needed, wanted, was to fuck Harry to get over him. It was also a self-inflicted punch to the gut, because that was exactly how Harry had convinced himself to get into this—for a quick shag with a fit bloke. He'd been so stupid, and now his feelings were involved and getting hurt.

“No,” Harry practically whispered. It was so quiet he felt the need to shake his head for emphasis.

“No?” Malfoy repeated.

“No,” said Harry, louder. “I don't just want sex—” He forced himself to continue. “—any more.”

“Oh yes, that's right, you _care about me_ now.” Malfoy's tone was mocking, but Harry thought he heard a trace of hope.

“I want to,” said Harry. “I want to be able to. I want—so much.”

“You want me?” Now Malfoy sounded outright disbelieving.

Harry looked up into Malfoy's eyes. His face was still a mask, but Harry saw through it just enough to recognise the hope he had heard in Malfoy's voice now glimmer in his eyes.

“I want you.”

Malfoy frowned and shook his head. “You really are insane.”

And Harry almost laughed with relief, because, insane or not, Malfoy believed him.

“Please, Draco.”

Malfoy closed his eyes. He didn't nod, and remained quiet. When he spoke, his eyes remained closed. His composed tone belied his words, but Harry knew he meant every one of them.

“I'm fucking angry with you, Harry.”

“I'm fucking angry with both of us,” said Harry, honestly.

A small smile appeared on Malfoy's face and he opened his eyes to look at Harry. “So long as we're both angry with you.”

“So, we're okay?” asked Harry, hopefully.

“Not in the slightest.” Malfoy glanced over to the hob. “Did you say something about eggs?”

In the stilted atmosphere of their unfinished fight, they sat together and ate scrambled eggs. Harry's heart was still trying to beat its way out of his chest, but Malfoy hadn't thrown him out. Harry held tight to the hope he felt, and to the hope he had heard and seen in Malfoy. They had both made some major fuck ups, and this was no way to start a relationship, but. But maybe that's what they were doing.

Fighting and eating eggs with Malfoy; Harry didn't hate the idea, as long as it came with walks in the park, talking about books and sharing a broom.

Harry glanced over at Malfoy, who seemed to be enjoying his eggs. After a few seconds, Malfoy looked up at him. Harry gave him a small smile, but Malfoy just held up a fork full of eggs at Harry and frowned.

“Don't think I've forgiven you just because these eggs are delicious.”

As Malfoy turned his attention back to his food, Harry's smile grew and he decided to push his luck.

“So, what instrument _do_ you play, Draco?”

Without taking his eyes off his plate, Malfoy replied, “Fuck off, Harry.”

Harry laughed. Yeah, this is what they were doing.

**Author's Note:**

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